Today, I am relieved, ecstatic, joyful, delighted, and kvelling to learn that all 12 boys and their soccer coach are rescued, safe and sound. The collective global sigh of relief is holding me up and getting me through the rough parts of our world. There really are heroes in the world. We need to celebrate them!
Hold your kinderlach (children) closer today, and every day.
Troubles overcome are good to tell. Ibergekumene tsores iz gut tsu derseylin.
Technically, it is July 4th, Independence Day in the states, and I couldn’t be farther from feeling patriotic, proud of my country or the people who are running it. Truth is, our country scares the shit out of me daily frightens me in a way I have never before experienced.
Today, I welcome the day off with my family. I welcomed sleeping in a bit, relaxing. But I am not feeling very red, white or blue — well, blue only in the sense of a deepening sadness. Human dignity and freedoms are now being stolen daily. The immigrant crisis, where children are being separated from their parents and sent to ‘camps’ technically for purposes of law! WTF and the parallels to the atrocities of the Holocaust haunt me. Please, dear friends, we cannot have another global miscarriage of morals, ethics, and values. Please, hear the cries, feel the pain. Act. Scream. Shout at the top of your lungs.
I move forward only by seeing the cries of injustice rallied far and wide. I hold strong and hard in my belief that we, the greater we of like minds, fairness, civility, compassion, and empathy can right this veering ship.
We must hold on this holiday, more than all others, the belief that the people of our world can and will come together and change the confluence of attitudes and events that are swirling together like the perfect storm. We have to raise the bar on just about everything in the world on human rights. We all need to care.
June is National Gun Violence Prevention Month.Shouldn’t June be, Hello, Summer, Month? Living here in these United Divided States, it’s something I take very seriously. Last year, I wore orange for Hadiya Pendleton. You can read about Hadiya and why #WearOrange became a movement here. I think about Hadiya daily, her stolen childhood and untapped, unfulfilled dreams. My heart breaks when I think about how her parents and friends must feel. And having never met her, I am deeply saddened that her bright light no longer shines in our world.
Hey, hey. Ho, ho. The NRA has got to go! HEY, HEY. HO, HO. THE NRA HAS GOT TO GO!
I look at my kinder (children) and I wonder if/when this epidemic of gun violence will stop. It is a health crisis, as virulent as Ebola. On June 2, I marched again, myMrs., Little, and Big at my side. The crowd was little bigger, but not big enough. Hadiya deserved more people marching in her honor, a sea of orange for a necessary sea change… Gun violence must not be the new normal. We should feel safe going about our days. Our own president ugh publicly addressed the NRA ugh ugh at their annual Convention and said, “I will not let you down. I will not let you down.”
We can END GUN VIOLENCE! We can END GUN VIOLENCE!
Movita Johnson-Harrell. I #WearOrange for her too. This inspiring woman has lost her father, brother, and teen-aged son to homicide by gun violence. Tsuris (devastating pain, grief) does not begin to cover what she has been through in her lifetime. Her speech at our March in Philadelphia left nary a dry eye. My Mrs., she was verklempt (all choked up). Yet Movita, she gets up every day, puts a smile on her face, and works very hard to make sure no other momma will ever feel the pain she feels or experiences what she has experienced. She was even selected by our new D.A. Larry Krasner, a good man, as Interim Supervisor of Victims Services. Who could understand victims and their families more than Movita? Through her broken heart, she helps others. A real mensch (good person, through and through).
Guns down! GUNS DOWN! Guns down! GUNS DOWN!
Tell me what democracy looks like. THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE!
Marching and gathering peacefully in protest is my right as a citizen, and I need to do more. Each week, volunteering with Moms Demand Action, I make telephone calls to constituents all over the country, urging them to contact their legislators about concealed carry reciprocity. I often get yelled at, hung-up on, told that the person on the other end of the line is carrying… and I also, often connect, listen, politely inquire, challenge, and charmingly change the thought process with real facts. It is one of the toughest, yet most rewarding 60 minutes during my week. Together with other volunteers, Moms has driven hundreds of thousands of phone calls to elected officials to battle the NRA and the ballot box.
I #WearOrange because I’m a mom who cannot comprehend losing a child, a family member, to gun violence. I #WearOrange to raise awareness. I #WearOrangebecause change will not happen unless we make it happen. I #WearOrange for all of the victims and their families. I #WearOrange because I know that #BlackLivesMatter. I #WearOrange for the #LGBTQ community. I #WearOrange for all the tragic, senseless massacres at schools, concerts, movie theatres… I #WearOrange for all of us who are oppressed, marginalized, hated and victimized. I #WearOrange because I believe we need to drastically reduce access to guns. I #WearOrangebecause we need to treat mental illness without shame or stigma. I #WearOrange for all the families left behind from suicide. I #WearOrangebecause I care about the future. I #WearOrange because our elected officials need to see us and we need to vote. I#WearOrangeand I hope you will too.
Even in this world, one can taste the joy of paradise. Afilu in dem velt, eyner kenen tem di freyd fun ganeydn.
Today, was a mitzvah (nice thing, good deed) for our family. We went to my machatunim (in-laws) (no, they are not ‘those kind’ of in-laws — I am so fortunate) with kinder (children) and Gatsbyin tow. We always enter wearing our own coat of chaos and clamor. The maideleh’s (sweet girls) cross the threshold of the doorway, and they are starving like we never ever feed them kind of starving. They are so hungry, they are challish (faint). Nona, she is always ready for them to ess a bissel (eat a little something). She even has choices. Within moments, they inhale large slabs of thick tomato pie. Their cavernous bellies yearn for more. Next up, olives. Gorgeous gourmet kalamatas, and giant green greek beauties stuffed with gorgonzola cheese. Still, the hollows of their kishkas (intestines) cry out, “more please.” One may surmise we only feed them at Nona’s house… Bagels, cream cheese? How about some tuna and bean salad? Nona, a sincere balaboosteh (gourmet cook, cleaner, gardener, caregiver, efficient and loving too — Martha Stewart, she would be impressed, and would learn a few things from our Nona) she whips it all up in minutes. Chips? Who wants chips? Finally, the rumbling bellies begin to bloat. Success.
All the while, amidst the boisterous banter, the barking boy and the pure joy of seeing and feeding her bubbellah’s(grandchildren), Pop Pop, he sleeps soundly in the front room — a den recently turned bedroom. There’s been such tsuris (troubles, worries, grief) with his declining health of late. Our Nona, with a heart of pure gold, she deserves a little frailecheh (happiness).
So once the din of lunch was complete, and the starvation was temporarily sated, Nona, My Mrs., Little, and Big left for some much-needed, light and happy time together. I happily stayed behind, with Gatsby and Pop Pop. And hopefully Nona, she knew he was in good hands/paws with us, kaynahorah (with some good fortune). She can for a time, take her nurse’s hat off and put her sun hat on. Feel the warmth on her back and in her heart.
After about an hour and a half, he woke up. We chatted a little. I brought him his medicine (because Alexa, she told me he had must take it), his lunch (which of course Nona had already prepared) and some fresh water. I helped with the TV channels when his large fingers couldn’t navigate the proper buttons, and Alexa couldn’t make out his voice, now fainter than normal. I gave him a yummy chocolate chip cookie. We watched some golf together, quietly. Talking, not so much.
A bit later, an explosion of noise was welcomed as they all poured through the front door. Smiles on happy faces. Squeals of love and hellos to their Pop Pop, now awake. Joy in their eyes. Joy in Nona’s eyes.
And you’ll never guess… The kinder, they were hungry, famished even. After a nice nosh (snack), we headed outside to play. Scooters, hula hoops, and fun.
Where does the time go… 24/7 is our new normal? Oy, fraig nisht (don’t ask). Eighty-one years is the average age of life on this planet in the U.S. its probably much less with mrt at the helm to live. If you’re a man, you get an average of 78.7 years. How many heartbeats? How do we spend our time? What makes us happy? What constitutes a life well lived? These answers change from person to person, and I have been doing a lot of mulling this over of late. So much so, my head hurts (se tit meer vay der kop).
Everyone’s road is different. Life, it is filled with zillions of invisible tugs of war, pulling and tugging at us — some good, some not so much. Sometimes we fly through tsuris (trouble) with ease, other times, we need more agility — extra adeptness, newfound compassion, empathy.
Can we get balance among the commotion? When do we know what feels good and what hurts, pains us? What about ethics, morals, values, pain, conflict, money, love, empathy, gratitude, compassion…is there a pattern? There is no manual, I do know that…
If our time is finite, we probably should handle it with care. Even when our email is full and voicemail is no longer accepting messages If our energy is fixed, we should do our best to expend it wisely. If we crave healing, we should actively seek restoration. If we desire love, let the heart sing. Can we afford to bargain at this table? I don’t think so… and yet I know I have danced along the ledge. I was young, pained, not yet so wise… So what? (Iz nu?)
Tseitn derlaibt! Oh, the times we have lived to see!
May there be many more tomorrows for us all…
My recipe (note, I’m no cook!):
Do work that is meaningful
Follow your heart
Always, always, always, be kind to others
Live out loud
Are you living your life well? It’s never too late to change things up a bit. Tell me how you do it?
And by ‘they,’ I mean the ‘hooded-Zuck’ and his crowd of gonifs (thieves). Et tu, Zuck?
My question to us all, will we continue to share on Facebook?
He who has money, has the whole world! Ver es hot gelt, hot di gantsah velt!
Mr. Facebook himself, the big macher (person of influence), took a trip to DC, probably wearing his old Bar Mitzvah suit to meet with the house and the senate. His tie, ferkokt (crooked, amiss), his apology, a bit meh (so-so, or like the bleating ‘baa’ of a sheep). He left unscathed and probably privacy policies will remain unchanged.
Facebook, with a user base as big as a continent, has really f*cked with mishandled our privacy information. Forget this ‘free service’ we are getting by showing our ‘proud momma’ monumental moments, our every Insta-share, dishing and #hashtagging our favorite restaurants and movies that we google-mapped to get to… He is laughing all the way to the bank in this brave, new, technological ledge that we are teetering upon. We are definitely not in Kansas anymore… This my friends, is the very dark and dirty side of tech. D-A-T-A. The new four-letter word.
Believe me, I know because we have our Gatsby that not everyone the dog barks at is a thief (nit yederer oif vemenhunt bilen iz a gonif), but something here, it ain’t kosher is not right. It’s veshtunkina (smells foul, bad).
Zuck allows us to think that we get all of this loving and lovely connection forfree. What a price we are paying now. mrt is our president. Democracy, as we knew it is shot. Our elections have been meddled, *ffed stolen by boy-pal Vlad. Oh, and Cambridge Analytica, a data mining company, hired by mrt’s campaign thugs, now owns all of our personal data or at least over 87 million of us the number they’re telling us anyway. One might even think, he should pay us? Nu?
Now I know, I am as guilty as the next momma. I hit next, next, next until I found ACCEPT. Yup. We all did. We ACCEPTED. We were naive. We were eager to share, like, and find our friends. We wanted to kvell (ooze with joy) over our kinderlach (children), kvetch (complain) about our tsuris (troubles), and voice our meynung (opinion) over current events.
And Facebook, the schnurs (beggars, moochers, leeches) are now collecting every single thing about us… every single thing. Will we change? Will we quit? Can we quit? Does it matter now?
Please tell me what you are doing about this DATA dilemma. The bitter irony, as I hit publish, this goes to Facebook. Maybe Mark, maybe he will read this…
Mr. President, members of Congress, legislators, and elected officials, f*ck your thoughts, prayers, flags at half-staff, and hollow condolences. Your inertia is astounding and I am angry. Columbine. Marshall High. Sandy Hook. Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. Our kinder (children) are dying. What is it going to take to get you to make change?
The constant misinterpretation of the Second Amendment is reprehensible. Bloated white men in high offices are allowing young white males to steal childhood, eternally changing families before our eyes.
How is it that anyone outside of a highly trained militia, can purchase a gun meant for nothing less than mass destruction and terror?
In these United States: you must be 18 years of age to vote in an election assuming you have the wherewithal to register to vote and muster up the energy to actually show up at your place of polling.
You must be 21 years of age to legally by alcohol. Most states, including Florida, have zero-tolerance alcohol laws when it comes to alcohol purchase and consumption. ZERO TOLERANCE. As a kid growing up in sunny south Florida, we, all of us, had fake ID’s that made alcohol purchase easy.
In many states, just like Florida, at the tender age of 18, you can purchase a rifle, shotgun or, say, for example, a militaristic style, long-gun, like the AK-47 or the AR-15. In many other states, in full support of American gun culture and hunting, you can be as young as 14. Fourteen.
You can be hormonally challenged by a newly-formed pimple, bullied or rejected, and/or filled with normal teenage angst, and still legally purchase a long gun for hunting. This is not the 1800’s, and most of us are no longer ‘Pa’ from Little House on the Prairie, desperately trying to track and kill a bison for the winters’ feeding of one’s family.
In most states, including Florida, you must be21 years of age to buy a handgun the kind that shoots only 1 bullet at a time.
I am in full support of gun safety background checks, like the majority of this country. However, now is the time that we all must come together, parties aside, and ban all semi-automaticweaponssales. Ban all assault weapons. They are not the fabric of our rich American history. Yet history, they are certainly making.
We cannot dare become numb or normalize these massacres. Nor will banning all semi-automatic weapons stop these horrific acts of terror. But it is clear that we cannot and must not sit back and watch.
If change cannot come from the top down, then we all must rise from the bottom, up. As adults, moms, dads, caregivers, it is our job to protect our kinder (children). This #MomDemandsAction
What will become of the sheep if the wolf is the judge? Vos vet vern fun di sheps aoyb di volf iz di rikhter?